Choices
by Zivitz
Summary: Maisie and Claire talk motherhood. Sequel to Kindred Spirits.


The sound of hammering echoed out over the lake and bounced off the mountains beyond. The sun was creeping up over the trees into a clear blue sky, the chill of the morning beginning to burn away and leaving a comforting warmth in its wake.

Maisie shifted in the grass, rolling over and leaving Anne and Diana to their excitement over getting to sleep in the Spare Room. She listened to the sounds of Owen building their home, and the birds in the trees, and insects humming lazily as the day began to heat up in earnest. The sunshine wasn't oppressive yet and she basked in it, feeling wrapped in a hug that warmed her from the inside out. She tilted her head slightly to look up at Claire, who was trying (and failing, from the sounds of the occasional swear) to darn a hole in one of her socks.

"Claire?"

"Hmm?"

"How come you don't have kids?"

"I do, sweetie," said Claire absently. "I have you."

Maisie's tummy flip-flopped. But that wasn't what she meant. "No, I mean, why don't you have your _own_ kids?"

Claire stopped squinting at the sock and dropped her hands to her lap, really looking at the girl near her feet. "Oh. Um, I guess it just isn't something that's important to me."

Maisie lifted herself to an elbow and cocked her head. "Why not?"

"Well," she said with a sigh, "I was just always more interested in my career. I was engaged once, and maybe if that had turned out differently… but I loved my job, and I love seeing the things I work at be successful. Some people just aren't really into babies. I guess I'm one of them."

"Not even with Dad?" Maisie asked slyly, the name still tasting new on her lips.

Claire laughed. "Now you're just being nosy. I won't say I've never thought about it. But… think of it this way. It would be really nice to have a pet pony. It would be wonderful to feed it and pet it and ride it around. But the reality is a lot different. There would be days when you'd be tired and sick and not feel like having to get up and clean out the stall. And you realize that sometimes the idea of something is a lot nicer than actually having it. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so. But then what about me?"

"What _about_ you?"

Maisie looked away. "Is the idea of having me nicer than having me?"

"Oh, honey." Claire abandoned the sock next to her chair, reaching down to tug at the little girl until she collapsed in her lap. She took the girl's face in her hands and said, "Maisie, you are exactly the opposite of that. Having you is a million times better than anything I could imagine. You're sweet, and kind, and beautiful, and smart. I wish you didn't have so much pain in your life, but now that we have you I wouldn't trade you for anything." She brushed some stray hair out of Maisie's face and used a thumb to wipe away the tears that had spilled over.

Maisie nodded past the lump in her throat.

"Besides," she said. "You're already potty trained."

Maisie giggled through her leftover tears and scrunched down until she could lay her head on Claire's shoulder, long legs hanging over the side of the chair. She was really too big a girl to be sitting in someone's lap, but Iris and Grandpa had never really been physically affectionate and she was finding that she liked it. Claire and Owen were touch-y people, and it made her feel… safe. Loved. Babied, sometimes, which she would never admit out loud that she liked. She didn't remember being held much, except when she was little and would crawl onto Grandpa's lap for a story. Then she would snuggle up to his side as he read her to sleep. She looked at Claire, who was looking into the distance as she stroked Maisie's hair, and wondered how life would have been different with a mother.

"Claire?"

Claire hummed.

"What's your mother like?"

Claire turned her head to look at her, hands stilling. "My mother? She's… I don't know. She's Mom. She's funny and kind and annoying and frustrating. Why? Are we thinking about mothers?"

"Yeah." Maisie picked at the bits of grass stuck to her shirt.

"Plenty of people grow up without mothers, you know. Sometimes they die, or have to be away a lot, or sometimes it's just best for everyone if the mother's not involved. And sometimes mothers look different than we think. You had Iris," she reminded gently.

"Iris was not my mother," she said firmly, sitting up slightly. "She was… she took care of me. But it wasn't her job and she always complained about it."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't love you, sweetie. And you know she misses you."

Maisie relaxed again, leaning into Claire's embrace. "I know. I miss her, too. But it's different."

"Yes, I guess it is."

The banging stopped, and they watched Owen turn to sit on the roof, knees bent to brace himself next to the pile of shingles and using a rag to wipe his brow. They'd been up early the last week or so, Owen wanting to get working on the roof before the day got too hot, and Claire and Maisie unable to sleep with all the racket going on. Soon Owen would come down and they'd all take a nap. Maisie looked at Claire out of the corner of her eye; she already had her eyes closed.

"I wish you were my mother," she sighed softly.

"I could be," came an equally soft reply. Maisie lifted her gaze to find Claire's eyes on her, looking watery. "If you want, Maisie… I don't know how to be a mother, but I can try to be yours."

Maisie bit her lip and flung an arm around Claire's shoulder, burying her face against her neck. The tears came fast and hot, and her breath hitched as arms squeezed her tight.

"I'll take that as a yes," said Claire, voice wobbly. They sat until Maisie's tears started to slow, Claire rubbing her arm gently.

"Whoa, what's happening over here? Is everything okay?" They both looked up to find Owen standing a few feet away, water bottle in hand and a concerned expression on his face.

Claire laughed through her tears, flapping a hand at her face. "We were just talking."

"Uh-huh," he said, sounding unconvinced.

Maisie wiped at her own face with her sleeve, then used the other to wipe at Claire's. "You were right," she said to Owen. "Mummy's happy crying."


End file.
